


Small Hours

by noxic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domesticity, Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Just a collection of little moments connected loosely by whatever I can tie them together with, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Scrapbook Fiction, scenes I want to see so I wrote them myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxic/pseuds/noxic
Summary: On a cold night in mid-November, an angel and a demon sit in companionable silence.-A collection of moments that I really wanted to write, but I haven't planned a real plot. It's mostly just flirting, fluff, domesticity, and maybe some interpersonal strife. Little moments in the post-apocalyptic lives of an angel and a demon.-Chapter 2: They Get Boba
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. They Go to the Theater

On a cold night in mid-November, an angel and a demon sit in companionable silence.

They’re at a production of Much Ado About Nothing in Soho, because they’ve made a habit of revisiting Shakespeare in the months since the aborted end of the world, and Crowley, of course, prefers the funny ones. They’d seen Hamlet for quite possibly the millionth time just a few weeks earlier, and Crowley believes he’s owed this one.

Aziraphale is quiet beside him as they enjoy the performance--he’s always had a soft spot for Shakespeare--and as the actor playing Benedick leans lazily against a set piece to peer lovingly at his Beatrice, Crowley spots a familiar gleam in the angel’s eye. A sucker for romance, he’s always been.

“I pray thee now tell me,” Crowley drawls along with Benedick, voice low enough that only Aziraphale can hear. “For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches, his shoulders tense, and Crowley wonders if that mightn’t have been just a  _ bit  _ too much. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before--teasing Aziraphale is not only one of his favorite pastimes, but a rather singular talent of his. but now that the veil has been parted by time and the experiences they’d shared during the Apocalypse that wasn’t...is it too obvious? Is it a spot too sore to touch just yet? But a moment later, Aziraphale turns to meet his gaze with eyes like liquid steel, and Crowley feels the apprehension drain out of him as though flushed out with something cold and light.

“For them all together,” Aziraphale says shortly. He doesn’t bother with the rest of the lady’s lines, and Crowley flushes just a bit at the unexpected...intentionality of it. Aziraphale turns his attention back to the stage and Crowley follows shortly. He doesn’t mention the hint of pink creeping up the angel’s neck. He valiantly ignores the heat that rises in his gut at the sight.

Suffer love, he thinks. A good epithet in more ways than one.  _ Do you know, _ he thinks,  _ how much I have suffered for you, angel? Do you know how much you have tormented me and how heartily I would have you continue if only to ensure… _

_ Do you  _ know _ , _ he wants to ask,  _ how easy it would be, how utterly effortless, for you to completely unmake me? _ He wonders if Aziraphle knows that Crowley has long since tied his heartstrings into knots around the angel’s pale fingers, a series of silent prayers to someone he doesn’t know anymore that he won’t ever forget how much he  _ means _ to Crowley.

And, well...he must do. Crowley likes to think he’s suave and cool-tempered by human standards, but Aziraphale has known him for six thousand years, across time and space and culture and  _ everything.  _ He cannot hide from Aziraphale anymore than he can hide from his own traitorous eye. There is no place on any plane of reality where Aziraphale couldn’t follow him, look him up and down with those knife-sharp eyes of his and render judgement. He must know. He  _ has to  _ know.

But Crowley also knows Aziraphale. The fussy, posh, sometimes-even-pompous bastard who wouldn’t let a harsh word pass his lips without the thin disguise of something sickly sweet. He’s passive-aggressive, Crowley knows, but tends toward the former wherever his real feelings are involved.

The play goes on a while longer after that, and they don’t exchange another word until the end.

“Hungry?” Crowley says simply. It’s barely a question, which is good because a truthful answer doesn’t really exist. Of course, as a celestial being with no  _ need  _ to eat or drink, Aziraphale is not hungry. And yet…

“Oh, yes,” the angel says immediately. “Did you have something in mind?”

Crowley grins. “Oh yes,” he echoes. “Have you ever tried bubble tea?”

Aziraphale’s eyes light with curiosity, but his expression remains apprehensive. “No, but I have heard of it. It’s served cold, yes? With tapioca?” The demon nods.

“Exactly. It’s quite refreshing. I think you’d like it.”

Aziraphale makes a contemplative face, entirely too serious for the discussion at hand.

“Alright,” he decides. “Let’s try it. Lead the way, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm obsessed with david tennant and catherine tate, sorry. the b/b romance in much ado is the bisexual drama i live for.


	2. They Get Boba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boba is a hit or miss.

Suffice to say, Aziraphale does  _ not _ like bubble tea.

“Oh,  _ that  _ is dreadful,” he says miserably after spitting a tapioca pearl into his napkin. They’re standing outside the restaurant with their respective cups. Aziraphale had grinned at the novelty of poking the bright yellow straw through the sealed plastic top--the smile promptly soured into a rather amusing grimace as he pulled the first pearl into his mouth. “That texture--absolutely awful!” he splutters, staring in offended disbelief at the drink in his hand.

Crowley can’t help but crack a knowing smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry angel,” he croons, not sorry in the slightest. He offers his own cup, already adorned with a cherry-red straw, in the angel’s direction. “Try mine.”

Aziraphale huffs. A flush creeps up to his face as he comes back to himself, attempting to preserve his dignity from further harm. “Why would I like yours any better?”

“Hasn’t got anything in it. Just tea and milk, angel, you can handle that.” Crowley pushes the cup towards him again. “Let’s trade. Trust me.”

The face Aziraphale makes is utterly precious, in the demon’s opinion. The narrowing of his eyes only emphasizes the reflexive purse of his lips, and he’s still got a hint of pink lingering about the ears and neck that stands out nicely against the creamy hue of his jacket collar. Crowley bets that his skin is extra warm there, and he would  _ very _ much like to touch it. He nobly resists the urge.

“Hm,” Aziraphale says finally. “Fine.” And he takes the cup from Crowley’s hand, watching it suspiciously as he passes his own over in exchange. “What did you get?”

Crowley shakes his head, feeling something warm begin to prod against his ribcage from the inside. “Just drink it, angel.”

Aziraphale makes a face, but he does just that, red straw slipping daintily between his lips in a way that Crowley will  _ certainly _ not think about repeatedly in the coming days. His eyebrows shoot up as he takes the first sip. “Is that jasmine?” he asks. Crowley nods, and Aziraphale takes another drink. “That is quite good, my dear. Such a smooth flavor--I don’t think I’ve ever had cold jasmine tea before.”

He hasn’t, and Crowley knows this because they’d had a conversation some decades since, in which Aziraphale had taken a firmly offended stance on the consumption of iced teas in general after a visit to the American southeast, where he’d sat down in a small diner in western Florida upon arrival in the country, then immediately decided that he needed to complete his mission posthaste in order to return to the safety of his London bookshop as soon as humanly--or supernaturally--possible.

“It’s barbaric, Crowley!” he’d insisted over drinks in the backroom upon his return. “I don’t know how anybody stands to live there. Hardly any manners at all in the entire country, and  _ none _ of the cafes could serve a proper cup of tea.”

Crowley had nodded gravely at the angel’s rant. Not for the first time, he had wondered if God had modeled the entirety of the English culture  _ specifically _ on Aziraphale’s many and varied behavioral quirks, or if the angel had just  _ happened _ to land himself in a country that suited his neurotic personality to a tittle.

“I figured you’d like it,” he says now, nodding towards the jasmine tea. “Keep it.” He lifts Aziraphale’s abandoned earl gray to his own mouth and sucks up several pearls at once. Aziraphale visibly cringes as he watches Crowley chew.

Crowley smiles, the turn of his lips just barely disguised by the motion of his jaw as he works his way through the layer of boba. How fun, he thinks, to have found a food that Aziraphale can’t tolerate. He supposes he’ll introduce him to chia pudding next.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, you old serpent,” the angel says, watching his expression with eyes pinched at the corners. “But I’m sure it can’t be anything good.”

“'Course not,” Crowley says, devilishly. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Of course not.”

Then the angel brings his straw back to his lips, has a sip, and begins walking in the direction of the Bentley. With a not-quite-hidden grin, Crowley follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the idea of Aziraphale having OpinionsTM about foods that are straight up Not Valid


End file.
